Memories
by Scarlett Raine
Summary: Christine Daaé awakens unable to recollect.
1. Chapter 1

This story is based heavily upon Leroux's original tale. In this version, Christine is given a ring from Erik; a ring she must wear to ensure his friendliness towards her. If you have any further questions, feel free to ask! (Or even better- read Leroux's version!)

* * *

Her first reaction was of terror: eyes alight, nose snarled into a curl, and red lips sprawled, she appeared as though she were about to scream.

"Please monsieur!" she shouted, clawing against the bed's wooden headboard.

"Christine?" Erik asked, feeling her anguish begin to permeate throughout the room. She trembled and clutched the coverlet beneath her fingers, twisting sections of it into tight spirals.

_Monsieur? _ He stretched his securely gloved hands towards her sympathetically, although his eyebrows knitted together under the mask in confusion. He had expected her to be frightened—she opened her eyes after three days to the visage of a monster! How could he expect less? He had not, however, expected her to revert to formalities. He was dismayed when the outstretched hands created only an adverse effect; she shrank down into the mattress further, her coverlet nearly engulfing her.

"Christine, are you in any pain?" he asked as he watched her eyebrows crinkle in uncertainty. He retracted his outstretched arms—why he ever thought she would care to seek solace in them, he would never know. "Would you like for me to sing?" he asked obligingly, hoping to mitigate her pain in whatever way possible. His voice was his only soothing asset, after all.

"Sing?" she asked, her bewildered voice cracking.

Erik cocked his head, his lips tightening into a line as they were apt to do, "Yes—or a story, if you would prefer?" He glanced about the room, searching for the book he had read to her the last time she had stayed within his domain. She had absolutely insisted that it be kept in her quarters; she was rather fond of the tale.

She shook her head, and his attention snapped back towards her. He tightened his lips. Of course, why would she want the company of someone like himself? "_My dear_, you are surely exhausted. Allow me to take my leave of you-"

"Monsieur, please. _Where am I?" _Christine interrupted, her voice leaking drops of potent fear.

Rather irked at being interrupted, he responded in a sharp rasp, "You are in my _home, _Christine. You spent the last three days in that bed after catching a high fever gallivanting with that _boy _in a rain shower." _How had that boy been _so _irresponsible? To be caught out in a rainstorm with Christine and not seek shelter? Did the thought even cross his thick skull that Christine could catch cold in her thin petticoats and dress? Of course not._ He growled, startling Christine.

"W-what _boy?_" she asked, her hands now kneading the afghan.

_What boy? _What _boy? _There were multiple? Dear Lord…

"And please, monsieur. Who are you?" she pleaded after her last unanswered question.

_Who am I? _His expression morphed into a scowl, his eyes glowing in the scant light. "Who am I?" he jeered, "Why, Christine, I am your dear Erik, your maestro," he paused, seeing her persisting confusion, "_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra!" _ Did she think this amusing? He had sat at her side loyally for the past three days, crumpled in despair, periodically changing her cooling cloth as she toiled in the tangled, sweat-slicked sheets. He had even spoken to her in hopes that she would hear his voice in her stupor and crawl out of the abyss that had imprisoned her! No, this was not amusing in the slightest, and he would not play her cruel game.

He was about to voice his farewell when a timid voice reached him, "Then. . . who am I?"

_. . . What? _This was too much! He grasped the bed post, steadying himself, and stared into her eyes, looking for any trace of cruelty. All he found was conflicting confusion and hesitation.

"Christine. . .?"

She nodded, her hands relaxing, "That is my name?" He was too shocked to form a coherent answer. "Have I a surname?"

He shook his head dazedly, "Daaé. You are Christine Daaé."

"And how. . . exactly are we related, monsieur Erik?" Her confused stare nearly unraveled the last vestiges of his sanity. Until a glimmer caught the edge of his peripheral vision, and he suddenly had an ingenious idea.

He looked pointedly at the band on her left ring finger.

Her eyes widened, "You're—my husband?"


	2. Chapter 2

He worked to collect his shocked features into an expression mirroring concern and sympathy, "Yes, dearest," he gathered her delicately trembling hand between his two gloved ones, "Do you truly not recall?"

Christine's heartbeat pounded as she stared in horror at their entwined hands, "I—I remember nothing barring scant memories of my father. . ." her expression abruptly glazed over, "A house by the sea, a violin. . ."

A thumb stroking her palm jerked her from her reverie. Emboldened by his deceit, Erik collected her other hand, smiling transiently. "I am sorry you do not recall anything Christine."

Christine gently stole her hands from his grasp, folding them in her lap. He eyed them, feeling slightly affronted, but did not move to reach for her hands again.

Relentless questions tugged at her mind. Part of her questioned the blaring porcelain mask on her husband's face, but she repressed that question in favor of a far more prominent one. "And what am I to do now?" she whispered, breaking the silence, eyes downcast. She began to play idly with the frills of her nightgown.

He paused for a moment to consider his answer. "I suppose we shall simply have to wait and see if your memory returns." He gave a sliver of a smile.

"Ah—Well, I suppose that is agreeable," she stated as the shock began to leave her system, making way for apprehension to cloud her thoughts. What would her _husband_ expect of her?

"Excellent. I shall take my leave to prepare supper, then." He grinned at his newfound prerogatives as he swiveled to brush his hand against her porcelain cheek. "I shall be back shortly, beloved." He ignored her shiver.

As soon as the door clicked shut—with the turn of a lock, she noted—Christine began to tear at the coverlet once more, staring silently into the bed's canopy. _Husband?_ She thought anxiously, glancing down at her stomach, relieved to find it flat. She scoured her mind for any memories as her head throbbed.

_The smell of peppermint on her father's thread-bare jacket, the taste of the salty seawater, singing with an angel. . ._

Tears fought to the surface and cascaded down her reddened cheek. What had she failed to remember? What had her life been like? How had she married such a _surly_ man? Could she trust him? She blushed, ashamed of herself for such wicked thoughts. He _was _her husband, after all. . .

She swallowed in apprehension, taking in the splendor of the room to clear her rusted mind. The opulence was astounding. She sat in a four-poster mahogany bed, chiseled to perfection with multiple engravings of exotic animals and a repetitive beaded pattern. The coverlet was a fine satin, and she noted with dismay that in the midst of her nervous antics she had torn the right corner. A Louis-Phillipe chest of drawers dominated the western wall. One of the drawers was opened in a messy fashion, displaying a sleeve of lavish red velvet. Golden sconces lit the bleak stone walls, and she noticed for the first time that there was not any natural light that flooded the room—no windows.

In the kitchen, Erik searched for a cast iron pot in the top cupboards. Finding the smallest one (as only Christine would need a meal, and she ate little as it were—she truly was only a wisp of a thing), he fished it out with little detestable clanging thanks to his superior dexterity. Closing the cabinet, he hummed a quiet melody to himself, committing the lingering tune to his memory. _This would certainly go well at the end of the third measure. . . _

He continued to distractedly light the woodstove, fill the pot with water, and then place it gently upon the metal. His icebox held the scraps of chicken he had purchased on Monday in preparation for Christine's stay in his home, and he hastily acquired them. He had not expected this outcome when she agreed to stay with him for a few days, but he would surely not scoff at this jolly twist of fate!

A dash of oregano was procured from his rack of spices, and he gingerly laid the strips of chicken on a cutting board before promptly dashing them into small bites. The water in the pot began to boil, and he added multiple spices to the oregano before sliding the chicken in. There was a faint simmer as he grabbed a stirring spoon from the drawer on his right.

He imagined his _wife_ flitting about the kitchen with him as he stirred her broth (she had never been much of a chef—her last attempt in his kitchen had been quite disastrous). She would giggle as he smoothly conversed with her in his typical biting sarcasm. Then he would procure two bowls and perhaps—perhaps she would even let him eat with her? If that wasn't too much to ask?

He smiled at this scenario, still humming the lilting, light melody.

Suddenly, his mind shouted at him, shattering his blissful dream. _She will never accept you!_ Abruptly, the humming came to an end.

_More deception? More dishonesty? Taking advantage of her innocent naivety yet again, Erik? You think she'll love you because of this? You are living a _lie, _monster!_

Erik leaned against the countertop, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his tingling hands into tight fists.

_It's the only way! _He argued, _She would never love me any other way! Not with that blasted boy!_

Trembling, he waited for a retort from the voice. Hearing none, he began to stir the soup once again.

_If you insist…_

Teeth clenched, he silently continued to prepare the broth.

**A/N: Please let me know what you think about the story! :) And, thank you to all my reviewers of the first chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

He returned with the soup and a glass of water shortly thereafter, unlocking the wooden door. As he waltzed into Christine's room, he couldn't help but be concerned by her blank stare. As he moved to her side, he cocked his head to peer at her from a different angle.

"My dear?" He questioned as she started, her reverie shattered. He smiled timidly, offering her the glass of water first to assuage her thirst.

She grasped the proffered beverage, sipping it slowly as Erik instructed despite her wish to swallow it in one large gulp.

"I know you must be quite ravenous," he stated, eyes shifting around the room after handing her the broth. She nodded in appreciation but said nothing as she sat the bowl in her lap.

Eyes downcast, she began to sip the broth, her appetite diminishing as she tasted the vileness. Erik gave an impish grin as he saw her slightly puckered expression, "I apologize for the foul taste," she looked up at him questioningly, "it's to help you heal. There are a number of herbs in it."

She nodded, took another sip, and then grimaced before placing her spoon down in the bowl, "I am no longer hungry," she stated petulantly, finally breaking her silence.

"You must finish it, dear. It will help your body fight off the remnants of disease," he urged. Upon noticing her stubbornness arise, he added sternly, "You will not eat anything else until you have eaten this soup."

She narrowed her eyes to scour his, searching for a trace of relent. Sighing, she picked up the spoon once more.

In between bites, she asked, "What is today, and what is the time?"

"It is Thursday, November 2nd, and the hour is," he paused to glance at his pocket watch, "seven o'clock in the evening."

"The year, Monsi-Erik?" she asked, attempting to hide her gnawing fear.

"1878," he stated, "You are seventeen as of three weeks ago."

Seventeen years of her life gone. For minutes all that could be heard was the metallic clangor of her spoon against the base of the intricately designed bowl. When finished, she smiled a polite smile and handed him the emptied dish. She could not bring herself to thank him.

"I shall retire to my room now," he stated, "You are doubtless exhausted as well. Simply call for me if you have any troubles," he bowed out of the room, "Goodnight, Christine."

_How very peculiar he is, _she thought, _how did I come to love him?_ How stubborn and angry he was! She blushed a maiden's blush at her inner-outburst before sighing as she felt her tense muscles relax under the weight of exhaustion, giving way to sleep.

In the room adjacent to hers, Erik sat on his organ bench, elbows pressed on a few of the ebony sharp and flat keys, head in shaking hands. _Should not I be with her? Why am I not holding my rights as her husband and resting within the same bed? When did the _Phantom of the Opera_ become so abstemious?_

His conscience answered his rhetorical questions despite his wishes. _Because the emotion of guilt is not foreign to even you, Erik. _

He growled, hands curling into claws as he deeply dug them into the keys of the organ, conjuring a rancid sound that punctured room.

"Guilt? Guilt is for _dying men,_" he growled aloud, standing abruptly and stalking to a large mahogany cabinet that was mounted on the wall.

_And are not you dying? _the voice questioned, laughing dryly.

His upper lip pulled back to bare his teeth in a snarl as he thrashed open the cabinet door, causing a few glass bottles to fall and shatter on the floor, "I _know_ I am dying!" he shouted, "Moreover, would death not be preferable to this? This nightmare?"

Hearing nothing in reply, he angrily grasped the one drug his body yearned for: morphine.

* * *

Christine's heart leaped as a shaft of light scalded her sleeping eyes.

"E-Erik?" she deliriously asked, alert now that she was aware of who stood in her door frame. An undercurrent of danger that permeated the room caused her to subconsciously shrink back into the bed frame.

"I am your husband, and I _am_ going to share your bed with you," he confidently said, more to himself it seemed, as it appeared he held no regard for her opinion on the matter. Noticing her eyes widen, he growled as he tore back the coverlet on the opposite side of her bed, "Do not fear me," he spat, "I wouldn't dream of tarnishing you in your _condition_."

If possible, her eyes widened further as her pallor became a sickly white. Her forehead became clammy, and she stiffened at the sudden onslaught of her husband's frightening actions.

Erik lowered himself to the mattress as it groaned under his weight before maneuvering to the very edge of the bed, turning himself on his side as not to face her. Christine's heartbeat continued to thunder in apprehension. Silence.

"Erik?" she whispered. He offered no reply, albeit his quivering shoulders. Her eyebrows creased her forehead as her heart rate steadied in the oppressive silence. Seconds, minutes, and then an hour passed where not a word was spoken. Broken breathing was an indicator for both that the other was still conscious.

Christine stared at her hands in the sparse light offered by the cracked door. They were stained with shades of grey, but the gold band on her finger shone a sparkling white. She frowned ruefully before glancing over at Erik's form, immobile, in the very corner of the bed.

The bed creaked as she tentatively reached out her hand towards her husband.

"Erik…" she breathed a shuddering breath, "please speak to me." She was afraid to say anything further.

"What is there to say?" he retorted caustically in a deep tenor.

"Perhaps you could enlighten me as to why you are so upset?" she questioned, slightly wounded by his stinging comment.

He whirled around, eyes scintillating with unshed tears, "Why would I be upset, _darling? _I am sharing a bed with my beloved _wife!_"

She cowered beneath the coverlet.

"Ah! Perhaps _that_ is why! My own wife, my living bride, is frightened of me! Is there not a soul in this world that isn't? A soul that would redeem me? Someone who is strong enough to withstand the horror of my face…" he paused in reflection, "But, ah, you have forgotten it, haven't you? Or is it engrained into your skull?" laughing humorlessly, "It's behind your very eyes right now, isn't it? Beating you senseless with its abhorrence! That's why you're quivering, isn't it, Christine? Why you're so frightened! Why, a monster for a husband! One that must _steal_ into your bed! You must hate your Erik! Hate him with all your _soulless_ body!" he cackled maniacally at this, "A soulless angel. How very fitting for my wife!" he paused, eyes gleaming, "Well, dearest, sleep now! Rest well, and when you wake I promise to be the very first thing your shining eyes set sight on!"

**A/N: Thanks again to all my awesome reviewers! The reviews make my day! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I**n frightened, dawdling tears, Christine had been determined to remain alert the entire night as to not become vulnerable to her _monster of a husband_. She had rolled onto her right side after his sudden outburst, angered by both her lack of remembrance and the cruelty with which she had been treated. If she had so much as felt his fingertips stroking her hair…

Her shoulders had been taut, her toes curled, and her hands coiled into fists as her eyes had begrudgingly stayed open. Ragged breathing had emanated from both.

It had been a single melody that had been her undoing. The notes had been velvety, heavenly, and filled with rich cinnamon undertones. How was it that someone with a demonic persona could emulate the voice of an archangel? It had caressed her ears and enticed a yawn from her lips. Her eyelids had suddenly bore an additional weight, and they struggled to remain open. It was as if the lullaby had held a position of great import in the life she could not remember… as if it were an angel singing _instead of a man…_

**S**he gasped when she woke the next morning, tangled within the sheets, and then tensed as she felt no presence beside her. In vain, her eyes frantically scoured the room for any trace of her _husband _in the darkness. Not a single lit candle breached the shadows.

In her fright, she abruptly felt attuned to the sounds within the room: the ticking clock in the corner, her breathing, her thudding heart.

Suddenly claustrophobic in the darkness, she struggled to navigate through the room, tripping on the hem of her nightgown. She whimpered as she grasped her scraped knees before feeling along the sides of the stony wall, blindly searching for a handle. When at last she found it, she threw the door open, relieved to find it unlocked, and blinked into the sudden intensity of light.

After her sight adjusted, she glanced back into the room, eyes swiveling in search of a figure. Finding none, she sighed in relief before noticing a finely printed note on _her husband's_ side of the bed.

Tentatively, she walked back into the room to pick up the heavy stationary. The inscribed red script was hardly decipherable:

_Dearest Christine,_

_ How can I apologize for last night's occurrences? Your dear husband is having trouble adjusting to your new condition, but that does not justify his abominable actions. I know I scarcely have the right to ask, but could you forgive your husband his abhorred rashness?_

_Yours,_

_Erik_

Then, scribbled as if in afterthought: _I have travelled to the marketplace this morning. I shall return by noontime. Your breakfast is in the dining room._

Several sentences had been blotted out with his scarlet ink, and she was left to aimlessly ponder what the note had said in its entirety. Questions ran through her mind in an angry swarm: could she forgive- and trust- her supposed husband? She wanted to remember, that was all! Wanted to remember the life she once had! She shut her eyes in concentration, her entire face contorting at the intensity.

Her only memory was bright and warm. _The sun ensconced her skin as the sand between her toes scorched her feet. But it was a familiar warmth, and was welcomed with the cool foam that rolled up the shoreline. The wind caused wispy tendrils of her hair to dance behind her. A body was pressed close to hers. It was a figure she recognized: her father. He was hunched in concentration, gnarled hands grasping the bow with gentle reverence. She had long since forgotten the tune, but recalled the splendor quite clearly. At the reluctant end of the song, his mouth opened to laugh, and she remembered it to be a deep, melodic one that shook his entire body. When she hugged him, she could feel the reverberations in her own. Then he whispered in her ear, "Remember, little one, that I love you." _The memory ended with his hand clasping her tiny one.

No other memories slipped into her thoughts. Lowering shakily to the ground, eyes closed, lips curved downwards, and hands grasped fiercely at the ground, she thought, _who else can I turn to? _Is_ there anyone else? What is this lightless place? Hell?_

In despair, she felt she needed see the sun. To be reminded of its comforting, secure, constant warmth. _Where was the front door…?_ She stood in a sudden flurry of fabric. Spotting the grand oak door, she ran as briskly as her nightgown would allow towards it, and then turned the handle once, twice, three times… to no avail. With a whimper, she sunk the floor once more. Another tear slipped down the familiar path of her cheek.

* * *

**A**bove ground, Erik stole through the avenues of Paris, hidden in the shadowed alleys that separated _les magasins._ The sun hung low in the sky—a mere sliver above the horizon. Nestled in the alleys through which Erik slunk were the beggars and homeless. With nonchalance and dexterity, he would occasionally drop spare change while remaining unseen. More fortunate men and women were scattered across the city preparing for market day by filling their stalls with the week's crops, animals, and trinkets.

Erik had ventured out for a singular purpose that morning: to acquire the basic necessities. He was adept at the art of crime, and was easily able to filch the items he required with great poise and speed. This morning, however, his ever-wandering eyes caught bright petals in their peripheries. A peculiar conversation resounded in his mind:

_"Ah, Angel, to smell the wildflowers!" She dreamed wistfully, "They exude such fragrant blossoms at the marketplace. But I'll bet it doesn't hold a candle to how they smell in the wild. If I had the luxury of visiting the country," she sighed, "that should be the very first thing I would do."_

Surely the procuring of her favorite flower could not hurt his chances of forgiveness.

* * *

**H**e returned that afternoon to the cellars, packages securely in place beneath his arms. He found his beloved seated in his grandiose velvet-lined chair that was situated by the hearth. The small fire he had started that morning had become but dying embers. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, and the smart dress she wore was now tattered at the hem. She gazed at the spitting ashes, wrapped in morose musings.

Even upon his arrival, she continued to be absorbed in her thoughts.

"My dear?" he called, "Would you care to join me in the kitchen?"

Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.

"_Please_, dearest?" he called again, voice strained. She offered no response.

"You _will _come into the kitchen!" he shouted, jarring her. She stood immediately, and reluctantly tore herself away from the flames.

Her eyes were distrustful and her arms crossed as she approached him.

When she stopped a distance of several feet from him, he neared her- much to her disdain- and conjured a magic trick, reaching behind her ear to brandish the wildflowers in a colorful swoop and sleight of hand.

She startled before lowering her crossed arms to wonderingly reach out and trail her index finger down one of the gently sloping yellow petals, "This is my favorite flower," she stated confidently. Erik nodded.

As she glanced downwards, he noticed her shabby appearance and red-rimmed eyes with a start, "Christine!" he cried, "Is my bride upset?" now with a sheen of tears over his eyes as well, "Oh, Christine, Erik should have never done as he did last night! His conduct was monstrous!" he kneeled to the ground in despair, kissing the tail of her gown, "Please forgive him! It will never happen again! Erik will be a good husband!"

Her eyes widened at his acutely abrupt change in character. And as the sobs grew louder, she began to feel a sharp stab of pity for the man before her, despite her anger. She couldn't bring herself to answer his desperate pleas, but, feeling a potent mixture of affection and fright, sunk to the ground and brought her hand to brush away the strands of his hair that had fallen over the edges of the mask.

_The mask,_ she remembered as she saw his idiosyncrasy, _What is beneath it...?_ She wasn't given much time to ponder the thought, however, as the tormented cries immediately concluded, leaving naught but broken breaths and a heaving, skeletal body in its wake.

Erik spoke again, voice shaking, "Will you… sing?"

"I do not know how," she answered, "My voice was never trained…" she trailed off, again reliving her single memory.

He gasped, "But, my dear child, it was! Your _angel of music _brought you under his tutelage!" he replied, desperate for the stability of their music.

"Angel of music?" she asked uneasily.

"I shall tell you of the story later," he stated as he stood to his full height before reaching out to assist her, "For now, sing."

She nodded apprehensively as he stalked to another room in the house, "I—I suppose I can try."

**A/N: A huge thank you to all my reviewers/alerters/favoriters! :) They keep my muse musing. This is mostly a 'calm-before-the-storm' chapter, but the next chapter will really heat up!**


	5. Chapter 5

**"C**hristine, you mustn't be frightened of singing- it tenses your vocal cords," she began to relax her shoulders, "There. Now, open your mouth just so," he demonstrated, "and focus on the note you would like to sing. I shall play it now..." he played the note, and it resonated in the air for a moment before diminishing, "Now remember that pitch, and sing!"

He sat on the bench in his music room, his lips pulled back into a slight smile as he attempted to assuage her discomfort.

She looked him shakily in the eye as she stood near the side of the instrument, shivering, before sucking in a deep breath and-

"_No, _Christine!" he roared in indignation before shutting his eyes to calm himself, "_Christine,_" he said after a moment, utilizing his most placating voice, "You are to breathe from _here_," he indicated with his pointer finger, "_not _here."

She nodded, still fighting her apprehension, before lowering her shoulders and straightening her back without instruction.

Erik regained his composure, "Ah, your muscles are remembering."

A semblance of a smile fleetingly passed her lips before her forehead creased in concentration. The note rang out once more from the organ. In that moment Christine captured the pitch; the essence of it entwined in her mind and flowed directly from her eardrum, to her soul, and finally through her lips.

Erik's head tilted backwards, his eyes shutting immediately in serenity. A soft sigh emanated from him as he allowed that single note to blind his senses momentarily. Then, gently, and with all the tenderness of a lover's caress, he began the introduction to a Swedish lullaby that Christine had sung before her loss of memory. Christine's heart pounded in recognition of the simple melody.

Shakily, she asked, "How did you know I remembered that?"

"You mentioned that you remembered your father," he said, and to become further lost in the music, "Sing, Christine…"

From that moment on, with few exceptions, her muscles recalled the technical aspects she learned from her musical tutelage and she was able to sing with the bell-like clarity she possessed before her fever.

**A**fter several hours of reforming her voice to perfection, Erik was wholly content. His soul was glut with her voice. His conscience continued to dun him, but he sat oblivious in the company of perfection. Her voice was as efficacious as morphine, and yet his fingers still slid mechanically over the ivory keys as he surreptitiously stared at her: some of her pinned curls slipped to frame her face, one hand was held over her heart, and her eyes were closed peacefully.

Only at her stomach's insistence did Erik end the lesson, sliding the keys of the organ underneath their protective wooden cover.

In the silence- the silence that had been filled with heavenly music just moments before- he felt uncharacteristically forward, "Well, my dear, as you are clearly famished," she blushed, "would a picnic be agreeable?"

Still dazed, Christine faintly nodded, holding a hand to her throat as a faint smile appeared on her countenance. _That music! I felt as though I soared to Heaven! As if the angels were singing to a chorus of golden instruments! _

She looked at him wonderingly, "That music..." she trailed off, unable to communicate her thoughts in words, "Could you play later as well?"

His eyes glowed as he nodded eagerly, "For now, though, we must be going. It is nearly five o'clock, and we should not want to be late for supper!" he glanced at her attire, "But you must change for the cooler weather," she blushed as she realized she still wore her scuffed clothing, "I shall wait for you in _le salon._"

He watched her uneasily walk to her room, hands folded as if in prayer, before he sauntered into the kitchen to prepare their meal.

* * *

**C**hristine smiled, recalling the bliss she felt while the music inundated her soul. Was she not now the singer her father always wished she would be? She glanced upwards, sure that he was watching over her.

After ensuring the door was securely locked, she began to undress, unhooking the garment and casting it aside. _And, I shall see the sun, _she thought gleefully,_ But I _do_ need to inquire as to why we live in this dreadful sunless place… _suddenly her uneasiness began to overshadow her lingering happiness. She frowned, but her mind quickly trailed to the lavish rose colored dress lazily slopped in the Louis-Phillipe chest of drawers.

She stalked over to the chest and quickly found the scarlet dress in one of the bottom drawers. The detailed lacework on the arm was astounding! How did her husband afford such opulence? Tucking the question away for the evening, she tugged at the arm, willing the dress to come out. Her efforts were in vain, though, as the dress would not budge.

Scrunching her face, she attempted to slide the drawer out, but ended up landing in an ungraceful manner on the floor.

Slightly irritated now, she used her entire body weight to yank the drawer right out of the chest. She landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor, but found she did not care, as the drawer lay on the floor, its bursting contents spilling onto the wooden floorboards.

She scrambled to her knees to pick out the dress, and was prepared to quickly ready herself- had her fingers not grazed a sharp edge.

With a short yelp of pain, she glanced at her wounded finger before curiously looking back into the drawer.

They did not go on their picnic as planned.

**A/N: I am so sorry about this cliff hanger! (I feel especially evil for this because I'm going on vacation and there will be few updates). I promise an explanation next time, but for now, au revoir! Thank you to all my faithful reviewers/alerters/favoriters!**


	6. Chapter 6

Curious, she cautiously looked back in the drawer while cradling her wounded hand. Sure enough, beneath a light mauve dress laid a stack of heavy paper bound loosely by a crème ribbon. _Someone must want this hidden, _she thought before grabbing the stack and gathering her legs beside her.

She hastily untangled the ribbon and stared down at the stationary. From the cursive scrawl, she realized that the papers must be a form of correspondence. As she flipped through the sheets, she revised her thought—not correspondence, merely letters, as only one person had written them. She glanced down at the signature on the first note: _Forever yours, Christine._

_ She had written these!_ Anxiety began to build in the pit of her stomach as she skimmed the first letter:

_Dearest Raoul,_

_ He has stolen me away—my maestro! To the fifth cellar of the Opera House! Oh, he has been deluding me for all this time! To think him an angel! And then to discover the opposite! He is a demon! A demon straight from Hell! His visage is hideously deformed. His eyes glow an unnatural yellow in the darkness, and his skin is pulled tightly to the bone . . . he looks as if he is a skeleton. A corpse! He has no nose just as a corpse does not!_

She began to tremble, recalling Erik's heated outburst about his face. Her husband . . . it was not he who had stolen her away, was it? It couldn't possibly . . . ! Yet it would explain so much!

_ I am terribly frightened, Raoul. When I pulled his mask off—a grievous error—he _attacked _me and told me terrible things! He shouted that I am to stay with him forever . . . and then began to sob and beg for forgiveness at the hem of my dress._

Her eyes widened, and her breath came in quick pants. Attacked?

_After he had composed himself, he told me that I am to stay here for a fortnight, and we are to gaily pass the time with music. He also begged of me that I could perhaps learn to loathe him less. Oh Raoul, there are times when I pity him. Pity him as much as I loathe him._

_I wish you were here to rescue me, my brave love!_

_Forever Yours,_

_Christine_

She could not comprehend the last sentence, and she was forced to reread it several times before she grasped understanding. Her mind whirled as all the pieces came together: the hidden letters, _gallivanting with that _boy, _I wish you were here to rescue me . . ._

She shakily stared down at the band on her left ring finger with a dawn of realization: _Erik was not her husband!_

* * *

In the quaint kitchen, Erik busily prepared the main course for their picnic. However, as he prepared the chicken, he realized he would need the traditional woven basket. _It _has_ been quite some time since I have been on a picnic! _He chuckled to himself as he opened the cabinet above the cutlery. He found nothing but teacups. Where _had_ he left that basket? He began to rummage in the other cabinets futilely. After several minutes more of fruitless searching, he relented. _No matter_, he thought, _I will simply use a cloth to tie it all up_. _My _wife_ will understand_. He grinned to himself, but his eyes did not crease or sparkle.

He sighed, his smile deflating as he stalked back towards the stove. The meat was sizzling. As soon as it was blackened to Christine's tastes, he deftly sprinkled oregano. Satisfied with his culinary skill, he slid the chicken from the pan onto a silver platter that he had purchased on a whim.

Realizing wine would complement the meal, he strolled to the large oak door that housed the wine cellar. He considered himself to be a connoisseur of great wine, and he quickly consulted his taste buds, pondering which wine to choose from his abundant collection. After settling on an aged Chardonnay, he procured the bottle from a crate on the left side of the room and climbed the stairs.

Once he reached the kitchen, he swiftly acquired a white table cloth (that would double as both the picnic basket and blanket) with increasing excitement and placed the platter in the center. After tying the ends of the cloth together, he rushed into his room and plucked his cloak and hat from his dresser.

Suddenly, and with a genuine smile, he began to hum a tune that he had been toying with in his mind as he had prepared their picnic. Inspired, he swiveled to face his organ, grabbing a sheet of paper and his quill. He jotted down only the necessary notes to jar his memory, not wishing to become absorbed in music at the time.

Several minutes later (as he _had _become lost in his music despite his desire), he flinched, realizing that Christine was likely patiently—for she was the paragon of patience—awaiting his arrival in the sitting room. He ran back into the kitchen, adjusting the brim of his hat on the way, and grabbed the picnic sack and wine.

Supper in hand, he strolled into the sitting room with an expectant smile plastered on his face.

He was honestly surprised when Christine was not sitting on the settee, smoothing her skirts with an adorable frown of concentration.

_Is she still readying herself?_ He thought, adjusting the wine so that it was in the crook of his arm to glance at his pocket watch. It had been twenty minutes. Was that not enough time for the average woman to dress? _Perhaps she decided to take a bath . . ._

Sighing, he resigned himself to the settee.

* * *

Christine sat, tensed, in the corner of the room, hands curled into tight claws as she read the letters.

_Raoul,_

_ Beyond the impropriety of it all—and the impropriety of this is immense—he has acted as naught but the part of the Parisian gentleman. This is extremely fortunate for me, for I would be forced to do the unthinkable should he act vulgarly. He has offered me my own room filled with lavish items that are beyond my scope of ever affording, but he did not realize that the scissors he gave me could be rendered a weapon._

Oh, but he _had_ acted improperly! He had slept in her bed under the pretense of being her husband!

_I would only use them should a need arise, but . . . Raoul, how could you ever forgive me if something like that were to happen? You are my only love, I swear to you. Do not I wear your ring around my neck? And he shall never know of our secret engagement! Please, Raoul, when I arrive back at the Opera House, steal me away so that we may marry!_

_ All my love,_

_ Christine_

Her tears threatened to brim. And this was only the fifth letter! How much worse could her situation become as it was revealed by the letters . . .? Her hus—maestro, a deceiver. And her lover, up above and unable to be contacted.

She shuffled to the next letter, steeling herself for another onslaught of disillusionment.

Had it not been for an abrupt knocking on the door.

Her eyes widened, and she pushed herself back further into the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest and shoving the letters hastily under the bed.

She did not answer the knocking, even as it became insistent.

"Christine?" he called from behind the door, "Dearest?" Her eyes narrowed as anger threatened to overcome her anxiety. Did he believe he had the _right_ to call her that? Her nostrils flared, and her eyes sparked.

"Christine our picnic is ready!" He knocked again, "And I know you are hungry!" He forced a light chuckle as his unease grew. Why was she not answering? He knocked again, this time more urgently. "Christine, if you do not answer, I will be forced to open the door. If you are dressing, please let me know quickly . . ."

Her desperation abruptly overshadowed her cowardice, "How _dare you?" _

On the opposite side of the door, Erik's eyes widened as he froze. _What happened?_ He scarcely found his voice. She could not have remembered that quickly . . . !

"What is the matter, dear?" he forced his tone to be light and conversational, betraying none of the apprehension he felt albeit a slight waver.

He heard a metallic clang on the stone floor.

A sudden burst of rashness surged through her veins, "_YOU! _You are _NOT _my husband!"

There was a moment of utter silence.

Then Erik dropped the sack dinner, the wine bottle shattering on the floor, and threw open the door, his face displaying a myriad of expressions, unknowing of what to expect. Would she be cowering in her bed? Poised by the door with a weapon?

Eyes wild, he spotted her in the corner: her face blotchy, nostrils flared, and eyes a mixture of both flashing and wounded. A whimper emanated from her as her lips quivered. A ring glimmered on the floor beside the opposite wall.

She knew. And he was ruined. _Utterly RUINED! _He rounded on the wall and slammed his fist against it, bloodying his knuckles. _WHY? Why can God not offer me some semblance of happiness for scant moments? All my _wretched_ life . . ._ he groaned, his hands grasping at his mask as he slid down the stone wall, scraping his back.

_You knew this would happen at some point! _His conscience countered. He growled menacingly, teeth bared.

Christine gasped at his display, attempting to disappear into the wall.

He opened his bleary eyes with some amount of force, "Christine . . ." he whispered gently.

She covered her ears.

"Christine, my love . . ." he shuddered, "I think it is time I told you the true story of the Angel of Music."

**A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers! You are all so supportive! I just got back from my vacation, so another update will be coming in a few days! :)**


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